I huddled in the dark of my closet, my thoughts falling back to this morning, back to the old preacher in black, shaking hands with folks as they left church. Mom was proud, though she warned us kids not to be. She told the preacher she thought God’s hand was on me. That I would do something special for Him one of these days.
Strangely, that made the old man sad. He’d looked down at me with red rimmed eyes, tortured something fierce by the pollen in the wind. His voice creaked. “People think it’s a wonderful thing when the hand of God reaches out. And it can be, but bearing the light can be a burden, too. Don’t rush things, son. Innocence ends all too soon.”
Had the screams come because of pride? Did the heavy silence in the house mean things was safe? Was that the sound of Pa’s tractor out in the barn, finally fixed?
Are Mom and Sissy...?
My brain refused to finish the thought. My butt was tired of sitting. I had questions buzzing around me like bees as I eased the closet door open, inch by inch, peering out into my room. Thing were neat, picked up, like God would a wanted. The light from the windows was dimming.
Innocence ends…
I pulled myself up and went out into the hall, into the living room. The blue and gold Trans-morpher action figure dropped from my hand. The plastic robot bounced away. On the wall, crucified Jesus watched us all with a look of eternal sorrow I finally understood. Death had come, a screaming nightmare that had become this! Mom and Sissy lay where they’d fallen, throats ripped out. Red blood covered them and edged their bodies on the floor, soaking the gray carpet, matting their lovely golden hair.
The cool night air carried the tang of iron and the smell of their soiled clothing, but their eyes were the worst part: soulless, fixed in horror. Their faces were relaxed, looking far too peaceful. I reached out, wanting to close those eyes, but couldn’t. I struggled with myself.
A shotgun went off out by the barn. The boom shivered me.
I jerked my hand back to my chest and dug my fingers into my shirt. I jumped to my feet, barely aware that I did so, and went flying, sneakers slapping the carpet, then the sky-blue tiles of the kitchen. I burst out through the screen door, sending it smacking off the outside wall, hinges groaning.
My mind absorbed a flurry of details that I didn’t really care about: the sky overhead was deep blue with a few bold stars staring down. A stiff wind blew in past tall, waving fields of wheat ready for harvest. On the far horizon, a haze of red from the vanished sun still stained the sky. The ground under my feet blurred as I ran past the big silver maple, through a rain of flower petals like bloody tears. The barn loomed closer. Painted bright red once, the paint was now flaking and faded.
Too much red … everywhere…
Dad backed out of the barn, pitchfork tines buried in his chest. The handle pointed back into the barn like an accusing finger. He staggered into a turn, saw me, and tried to wave me away. He mouthed the word “Run!”
Dad! I could only stand there as he crumpled.
Darkness walked out of the barn. I saw a black mist with legs, and eyes like hellfire. The cloud congealed into the rest of a man. His pants, boots, and tee shirt were black as his slicked back hair. He had a widow’s peak, and a hard, cruel face. His mouth was full-lipped and stained with blood.
Two women followed him out, one of them holding Dad’s shotgun. They wore cut-off shorts with tops that showed pierced bellybuttons. Saying only bad girls dressed like that, Momma had always made Sissy dress properly. We were God-fearing folk.
But where was God now?
The three looked down at Dad, surrounding him. One of the girls got on her knees and pulled Dad up by the shoulder. His head lolled back. She bit him in the neck with sharp, white teeth, then lapping his blood like a thirsty dog. I knew what they were: vampires, the undead. They were only supposed to exist in movies, not real life. Not in Kansas, for Gosh-sake.
I made a gagging sound.
The three looked at me. The girls, too, had hellfire eyes. They smiled, not in a good way, and walked toward me.
And still I couldn’t move. Something was wrong with my feet. Their stares pulled at me, slowing my thoughts, distancing me from fear and the pounding of my heart. The girl who’d drunk from Dad reached for me.
The man stopped her with a raised hand. “Too easy.” His stare came back to me and I jolted like I’d been zapped by static. “Run,” he said. “We’ll give you a head start.”
His words freed me from ice. I turned and ran past the silver maple and the falling flowers, past my house, and the furrows of the vegetable garden. I heard a chill laugh pursuing. Then another. I looked back over my shoulder and saw them running on the wind, several feet above the air.
So much for a head start. Dirty cheaters!
I looked ahead through tears, and saw the scarecrow on his wooden cross. Then I saw gray as pain shooed away my thoughts. My head hurt from banging off the post.
I lay on my back, staring up at the straw-man wearing my father’s hand-me-downs. Scarecrow wore old work gloves, boots in need of repair, and his head was a stuffed potato sack. Sissy and I had painted that face, giving him a smile, and black eyes. They should have been sad, but looked angry. The smile was crooked too. We’d all had a hand in making him; our family’s love seeping in with every stitch as laughter raced around the kitchen. Mom had said the scarecrow was like Jesus; that he’d watch out for us, the way we watched out for one another.
You should ‘a’ done a better job.
Soon as I thought it, I knew I was wrong. Mom always said good and bad come to everyone, but God’s still in control.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
The vampires settled around me like crows to a feast, a wall of black and skin, smelling of blood and death. The man picked me up with one hand so I dangled. He was stronger than anything. But not as strong as the hand that reached down and grabbed his collar. Startled, the vampire looked at the scarecrow holding him up.
The scarecrow looked back. There was a golden light pouring out of that potato sack, drilling out of the eyes. The light hit the vampire’s face. It smoked, sizzling like bacon on the grill. The vampire screamed and let go of me. He tore himself free. I hit the ground and lay there, stunned. The evening even darker, but the house lights were on, throwing light out into the yard. The vampire landed beside me, his tee shirt ripped. Snarling in rage, he backed away from the scarecrow. The two women clung to his arms, hampering him.
I turned my eyes back to the scarecrow. He writhed, wrenching left and right. The nails holding him came loose and he dropped to stand over me. He wasn’t there but a moment, before rushing the vampires. The scarecrow reached out and grabbed the man’s face. I heard the cracking of bone. The vampire was shook and hauled up on tip-toes before being dashed down to the ground in such a way that his neck broke. The two girls went tumbling left and right. The scarecrow ignored them as he pounded with his fists. His work gloves became bloody, as did my father’s clothes. Soon, there wasn’t much left but a pile of ashes as the scarecrow’s eyes gushed golden fire.
I jerked as thunder rolled out. The girl with the shotgun had used its second barrel. She pulled the trigger over and over, but the gun stayed silent as a lamb to slaughter.
The scarecrow advanced on where she lay sprawled. Ripping the shotgun out of her hands, he flung it at the other girl who was trying to run away. The weapon caved in the back of her head. She stumbled and fell face-first into the vegetable patch, shuddering, groaning. The scarecrow turned his attention back to the girl who’d shot him. I could see a hole in his side. It did nothing to slow him down. The scarecrow grabbed the vampire girl by the throat and by her black hair. He tugged in two different directions and the head came off its neck. He tossed the head away like rotten cabbage, and stomped over to the last girl.
She was up now, arms open to the night. Her body thinned, turning to black mist. She was trying to get away.
The scarecrow stepped into the black mist. His back was to me. The light of his eyes was shining harder, a blaze that lit the night. In that golden spray, the black mist turned rusty, as if washed in blood. Then the mist came apart in clumps. A flurry of red flowers filled the air—this time, not from the silver maple. The blooms drifted to earth, all that was left of the last vampire. Ugliness had been turned into beauty. It wasn’t water into soda pop, but it would do.
The scarecrow came back, ruffling my hair in passing. He climbed the post and returned to his place, watching out once more from where he hung.
I stared into his canvas face and whispered, “Thanks.”
His head fell forward as he went limp. The golden light dimmed from his eyes, and I was alone, but not really. Mom had been right: God’s always in control. I didn’t have to cry for my family: there were in the arms of God, free of the pain setting in now, a crushing weight in my heart, making it hard to breath. My eyes were done with tears now. Tears were for the innocent, and that wasn’t me no more.
Feeling God’s hand upon my back, I walked to the house and picked up the phone, my whole body numb and kinda distant. I’d call the sheriff. He’d come, and others, to pick up the pieces. That’s what they do. There was nothing I could say about what had happened. I knew better than to mention vampires. As for why I was still alive—the hand of God?
No, more like the fist. Note to self: be in church next Sunday.
